take me home
by wellthatdepends
Summary: she watches from the nursery window until she sees the cottage light go out [upstairs/downstairs AU]


**a/n: **Upstairs/Downstairs AU. I haven't watched Downton Abbey or Upstairs/Downstairs in an age, so please forgive me in advance. Title taken from _Home_ by Daughter.

**.**

**.**

* * *

The baby will not stop crying.

It's in these moments, when she's trying desperately to soothe the baby while the house slumbers around them, that she wonders if she's really cut out for this life she's living.

Wonders if maybe she should have stayed on the farm.

But her voice finds a tune she long forgot; a lullaby from her own youth sang to her by her own Mama. And as she sings to sleep the infant that is not hers, she feels at peace.

The house, once again, is silent.

Through the window, she sees the lantern in his cottage extinguish.

This is just another night.

**.**

**.**

**.**

At breakfast, one of the ladies maids complains.

It's not even directed at Beth, more so the lady of the house herself, but Beth feels every barb as if it were aimed at her.

_She's a baby_, she wants to cry out, _she doesn't mean any harm!_

But Beth is only a nurse, and it is not her place to argue with a ladies maid, not when the hierarchy of the house is so precarious already. She knows they both enjoy particular, but different privileges within their roles.

The housekeeper, Mrs Peletier, sets the other woman with a stern look.

"That's no way to talk about your employer now, is it?"

The ladies maid grumbles an insincere apology, and silence descends on the small group.

She's been told it wasn't always like this; quiet and uncertain. She's told that the house was cheerful, once. Before the war.

War causes chaos. War breaks hearts. War clouds judgment and emotions run wild and people…

It brings out the best and the worst.

**.**

**.**

**.**

She can tell when the Governess is reaching the end of her tether by the state of her hair.

The older woman has a habit of tugging at her bun when the young Master Carl pushes the boundaries. He is full of quick retorts and childish pranks and it is usually just after lunch when the woman throws her hands up in annoyance, storming out of the room and into the courtyard for a cigarette.

Master Carl, however, hides in the stables.

It is Beth who is in charge of coaxing him back to his studies. Baby Judith on her hip, Beth finds him in the hayloft, hiding and sulking, while the stable hands carry on with their daily chores around them.

"I know you're up there, milord," she calls out, a smile in her voice. The baby babbles happily. "I know you won't come down because the world is unfair and unjust and for you to be born the heir of a grand estate and fortune is the most unjust of all."

The child scoffs from his perch in the hayloft and she fights a grin.

"You don't understand."

"No, I don't," she answers with a sigh. Behind her, someone clears their throat.

"Beth, what's going on here?"

His lordship sits astride his horse, the gamekeeper beside him. Both men dismount, handing the reigns to a nearby stable boy.

"Nothing, your lordship."

"Then why is my son in the hayloft and not attending to his studies?"

Beth blushes.

"Um, he's learning the basics of…animal husbandry?"

The gamekeeper snorts in amusement, his lordship giving him a look.

"Where's the Governess?"

"She had to attend to matters downstairs," Beth lies, wishing for Judith to cry or fuss or cause some kind of diversion.

"Carl, come down now!" His lordship demands, frustrated, "If this Governess quits, you'll be in a world of trouble."

"Father!" the boy whines, climbing down the ladder, "I hate her – she's so boring. Why can't Beth be my Governess?"

Blushing, Beth tries not to involve herself in their disagreement. It was no secret among the servants or their employers that Carl was sweet on his baby sister's nurse. She tried not to encourage it, to keep her distance so not to embarrass the boy.

"Beth is not qualified," His Lordship sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like they've had this exact same argument time and time before. Behind him the Gamekeeper chuckles, and she flashes him an unladylike glare.

"Beth, could you please take the baby into the house, I need to have a conversation with my son," the older man sighs. This is nothing new.

"Daryl, accompany her."

Both the nurse and gamekeeper glance at him in surprise. This is new.

But she doesn't argue, because she knows her place. And judging by the gruff reluctance, he's not about to oppose the order.

So there they stand, the young nurse and the rough gamekeeper.

However, this is also nothing new.

Surprise?

**.**

**.**

**.**

It is no secret, in the house, in the town, that Daryl Dixon saved Lord Rick Grimes' life during the war.

Broke him out of a POW camp and carried him for days, without even knowing his name.

Out of that bond grew something greater than friendship. It was _brotherhood_.

When Lord Grimes came to, in an ally hospital, his memories slowly drifting back, the first thing he did was offer the man who saved his life a job.

If Beth is granted certain privileges as young Judith's nurse, then Daryl is granted _freedoms_. He does not venture upstairs; though it is clear the man would never want to. She could not picture him in a dinner suit, not for the life of her. Instead, his domain is a small cottage near the stables and the acres and acres or surrounding woodland.

He calls Lord Grimes 'His Lordship' only in the presence of others. When they are alone, or thought to be, it was always 'Rick'. There are no pretences or titles. There is straight talk on equal footing.

Downstairs murmurs and upstairs talks. Her Ladyship doesn't particularly approve and Lord Walsh looks on the other man with something akin to disdain.

But it's a bond. And as far as anyone is concerned, it's unbreakable.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"How is she?"

Daryl is gruff and no-nonsense. Straight to the point, small talk be damned. It's both an admirable and annoying quality.

"She's fussy today, aren't you sweetheart?" she smiles patiently, the baby squirming in her arms, "Whenever Lord Carl is acting out, it's like she can sense it and decides to act like her big brother."

"Give her here."

She hands the baby over, without hesitation. This isn't the first time, nor the second or third. There's a reason she enjoys spending time outside, and it's not just to escape the shadows and draughty halls the great house.

"You're good with her, Mister Dixon," she says softly, as baby Judith starts to calm. She fiddles with the hem of her apron while he gently rocks the child.

"How many times have I told you to call me Daryl?" he mutters gruffly, passing her back the child.

"Too many," Beth grins.

Holding open the back door for her, she throws her a smirk.

"See you later, Miss Greene."

"How many times have I told you to call me Beth?" she throws over her shoulder, as he walks further away.

"Too many!" he yells back, and the smile on her face is positively radiant.

**.**

**.**

**.**

She writes her daddy letters; long ones, detailing every small nuance of her day. She knows he enjoys them, since the accident, he hasn't been so mobile and while he can get about, he tires easily and has to rest often.

She's thankful for Shawn, for how he stepped into her father's role after the war. She's thankful for her mama, who became a pillar of strength for her family. She's thankful for her job and the money she sends home to aid her family's struggling farm.

It's a necessity, but not a terrible one.

The Grimes' are decent employers. She's heard stories about some noblemen taking advantage of the young female staff, but Lord Grimes is no such man. He is kind and fair, loves his children and his wife. Those under his employ are truly grateful, and she hopes one day, when Judith is too old for a nurse, she can stay.

She hopes, anyway.

Her ladyship values her services, that she knows, but she wonders sometimes if the bond between mother and child would be stronger were there not another girl raising her. She wonders if it would be different, if it would be her ladyship the baby Judith cries for at night, if it would be her she reaches for in the morning. She wonders if this is the curse of nobility, this distance from ones children, this bond that only thinly exists.

If she thinks too much about it, it makes her sad. So she sings instead.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"My brother Shawn is visiting the village this coming weekend."

Beth enjoys her walks with Mrs Peletier. She misses her mother so dearly, that when she took up her post just over a year ago, the housekeeper was the first to show her kindness, which quickly became a friendship. She loves her like a mother, and the older woman is quick to guide her, to offer her advice.

The first month was hard, but Mrs Peletier made it just that bit easier.

"Are you asking for the day off?" the woman smiles, and Beth blushes.

"Even if it's just a half day, I know that Saturday's are busy for her ladyship and I don't want to leave her shorthanded."

"I'll ask her," Mrs Peletier brushes her hand over the sleeping baby's downy head, "her ladyship will understand. You will have to be back for dinner. Lord Walsh and his new wife will be attending. No doubt she will want the children in the parlour afterwards."

"Yes, ma'am," Beth smiles widely, "thank you, ma'am."

She resists the urge to throw her arms around the older woman.

**.**

**.**

**.**

She's still giddy from seeing her brother, that it almost distracts her from the nightmare that is dinner.

Almost. But not quite.

Judith is cranky from being abandoned for the day, even with the Governess stepping easily into her place. Beth is starting to think maybe the Grimes children are just destined to dislike anyone in that position, because when the harrowed woman presses the child back into her arms, muttering about nightmare children, she can't think of any alternative.

But Judith is cranky and from what she can tell, did not have a nap. She is cranky, and in the parlour, she squirms when her mother holds her, and bawls when her father does, and while Lord Walsh looks on amused (his wife, Lady Andrea, less), she knows the Grimes are growing frustrated, particularly her ladyship.

"Beth, what is the matter with her today?" her ladyship asks, passing the crying baby back to her. Beth gently bounces her on her hip, shushing her quietly.

"I don't know," Beth answers quietly, "I had the day off."

Her ladyship sighs audibly. Judith, as if sensing the tension in the room, starts to whimper. Beth bounces her again, giving the baby her finger to suck on.

"You approved it," Lord Grimes reminds her gently, "not Beth's fault Judith is so dependent on her."

"You're excused, Beth," Lady Grimes says curtly, "please put Judith to bed."

"Yes, your ladyship."

Inside the nursery, Beth can finally relax. She hates these dinners, hates how she has to stand just outside the door, in the shadows, waiting to be called in to take the girl away.

She's still upset and on edge, the baby. She coos, easing herself into the rocking chair, singing softly.

_Of all the money that e'er I had, I've spent it in good company. And all the harm that e'er I've done, alas it was to none but me. And all I've done for want of wit. To memory now I can't recall. So fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all…_

"That's an unusual lullaby,"

She all but jumps from the chair, startling herself and the baby, who starts to whimper once more.

"Lord Walsh," she bows her head respectfully, "are you lost? I can fetch Mrs Peletier."

"No, not lost, Miss Greene," he replies, smirking. He reaches for the baby, brushing her small head, looking into her eyes.

"You look so much like your mother," he murmurs, "there's hardly any Rick in you."

"His lordship know you're here, Walsh?"

In the doorway stands Daryl Dixon, a child's crossbow over one shoulder, glaring at the other man. It does much to calm her nerves, and she moves away from Lord Walsh, closer to Daryl.

"That's _Lord_ Walsh," he sneers, "don't think for one second that the niceties Rick extends to you applies to me. You may have a medal, but you're still no better than the dirt under my boot."

He leaves the room then, barely sparing a glance at Beth, or the baby, knocking Daryl's shoulder, causing the other man to step back into the door way.

"I'm sorry," Beth murmurs, Judith's whimpers petering out, "I hate it when he comes to dinner. Always looks at me funny and makes Judith cry."

"He just wants things he can't have," Daryl mutters vaguely, and she's remembers the rumours that circulated throughout the house upon her and Judith's arrival, about her ladyship, alone in the big house, believing her husband to be dead. And her husband's most trusted friend…

_No_. _Just gossip_, she tells herself, over and over again. But she can't ignore the tension and the awkward air that threatens to suffocate when they're all in a room together. How Judith always seems to be the catalyst.

"You're a good man, Daryl," she whispers, using his first name, liking the way it rolls off her tongue, "better than him."

"I'm nothin', girl," Daryl mutters bitterly, "don't you know the Dixon name is dirt?"

"No," she says forcefully, "you're ten times the man he is. You're a _hero_, Daryl Dixon."

He's silent, watching her as she settles the baby, gnawing on his thumbnail. She places Judith in her crib, the baby sleeping soundly.

"G'night, Beth," he murmurs, looking like he has something to add but remaining stoic, remaining silent.

"Good night, Daryl," she smiles softly, "sleep well."

She watches from the nursery window until she sees the cottage light go out.

**.**

**.**

**.**

The staff isn't huge, not like the glory days. Now there's just Mrs Peletier and a footman, a couple of maids and a cook. A chauffer and a governess. Her and _Daryl_.

The world is changing. Opportunities lie elsewhere. There are fortunes to be made across the seas. Adventures to be had. Sometimes people stay, tradition running strong through their veins.

Sometimes people leave. Like Maggie.

Maggie's letters never do themselves justice, her sisters flowing cursive describing a life of wonder and excitement and places she will never experience. There's a man who, by all accounts, is amazing. Her sister is living a life entirely her own. She's never coming back.

Shawn stayed. Of course Shawn stayed. Even after the war left him with shrapnel scars and nightmares, Shawn stayed at the farm and it was like he never left.

(She doesn't forget that there was a time when he almost didn't come back. When he was missing in action, when the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months. When her mother couldn't stop crying and it took everything she had to remain hopeful, to trust that voice in the back of her head that screamed that if Shawn was dead, she would know. She would sense it, _feel_ it.)

She took a position at the house the summer she turned eighteen, with no real experience save the recommendation of Mrs Peletier, who interviewed her for the post. She took the position when her father lost his leg in a machinery accident, when they had to take on extra farmhands, when the cost of upkeep, without Shawn and Maggie, started to creep upwards and upwards.

It was hard, but she adjusted. They all have jobs to do, and this is hers. There are parts she loves and parts she hates. Most of all, she hates that this is not permanent. That Judith will grow and one day her services won't be required and just the thought makes her heart ache like nothing she's ever known.

Which is why she said no when Shawn asked her to come back. When he told her that they didn't need her income and that she didn't need to work anymore. That she could come home and be a normal girl, fall in love with a normal boy. And that everything would be as it was.

That's not the way the world works. You can't go back. You can only move forward.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"How's the hunting lessons going?" Beth asks distractedly, taking blades of grass away from the baby, trying to tempt her with one of her many toys. Daryl smirks, dropping his crossbow on the ground, sinking down onto the grass beside it.

"Boy walks like his father," he complains, "_loudly_. Scarin' away all the game."

"That's a shame," she says teases, "was kind of looking forward to some rabbit stew."

"Didn't say we didn't catch anythin'," he grouses, "bagged three big ones. Know how much you love them."

"You're too sweet," she smiles. She grabs more grass from Judith's chubby hands, scolding the small child. "You eat more grass that my daddy's cows, Judy!"

The baby just babbles loudly in reply.

"You're daddy got animals?" Daryl asks looking at her carefully.

"He's got a farm," Beth replies, "had an accident a while back, but when Shawn got back, he really stepped up."

"Your brother fight?"

Judith crawls over to her, tugging on her skirts. Smiling, she lifts the baby into her lap, who happy settles against her chest, looking around, eyes wide and curious.

"Yeah," she says softly, taking Judith's small hand in her own, pressing a kiss to the back of it, "was missing for a while. Hardest is not knowing, ya know?"

"Yeah," Daryl nods, "lost my brother. Found him, but it was too late to do much…"

"I'm sorry," she says softly, resting her hand on his, "I can't imagine losing my brother."

"It was a lifetime ago," he mutters gruffly, and she squeezes his hand in comfort.

"Shawn…he came back _changed_," Beth chooses her words carefully, "wasn't the same happy go-lucky guy he used to be, running around town and charming all the girls. When he came back he…he wasn't that man anymore."

"War changes people," Daryl says quietly, "ain't no way around it. Just gotta give him time."

Her heart feels lighter, and deep down, she knows it's not his words that have eased her, but his hand intertwined with hers.

Even in the silence, he doesn't let go.

**.**

**.**

**.**

His hand in hers sends her heart aflutter, sure, but in her mind she plays it off as a young girl's fancy. She's been smitten before; she is, after all, only eighteen. But they had been boys themselves, fresh faced and farm bred. They never saw battle. Or if they did, they never came back.

Daryl came back. Daryl came back a hero, but still he shuts himself away in the stone cottage at the edge of the woods. The same cottage she can see from the window of the nursery, the faint glow of candlelight piercing through the night. She thinks of him there, alone, and wonders if he's thinking of her.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Summer fades and autumn flies by faster than the leaves fall. The air is crisp and Judith takes her first steps in the foyer of the grand house, after worming her way out of Beth's arms upon the arrival of her father.

It's a moment for everyone, and she pretends she doesn't see the tears in his lordship's eyes, the emotional combination of happiness and pride.

"My baby is growing up," he murmurs into the young girls soft hair, who babbles incoherently.

"Too fast," Beth grins, "soon she'll be chasing Master Carl all over the house."

His lordship chuckles, bouncing the girl in his arms. She tugs at his hair, grinning and Beth recognises the rarity in these moments and wishes there were more.

"I'm going to tidy the nursery," she says softly, his lordship completely focused on his daughter, "if she gets fussy…"

"I'll send a maid," he promises, "but I think we'll be right, won't we Judy?"

The nursery is already tidy, she wouldn't let it get otherwise. So she settles on the small bed in the corner, a book in hand and loses herself in worlds and people far removed from herself. She dreams of noble warriors and princesses who refuse to follow their paths and when she wakes, Judith is sleeping soundly in her crib, and a heavy blanket covers her, keeping the chill from sinking into her bones.

**.**

**.**

**.**

He spends more time in the servants' quarters and she tells herself that it isn't because of her. She tells herself that it's because it's winter, because the sun sets earlier and rises later and it's too cold to hunt and all the game is likely hidden away until spring.

She tells herself it's not because of her, even when he gives her a pair of moleskin mittens, even when he awkwardly presents her with a bunch of snowdrop flowers. Even when he told her to _keep singing_, when the maids chatter would threaten to drown out her soft voice. Like it didn't matter to him if no one could hear her, as long as he did.

She most definitely did not tell herself _that_.

The revelation comes at Christmas, when she's cold and homesick and recovering from a cold both her and Judith had the week prior. When the house is decorated to the nines and her ladyship is rushing around, preparing for her annual Christmas party. She sits in Mrs Peletier's small office, Judith playing at her feet, trying to distract herself as much as possible and not think about her mama's cooking or races with Shawn or singing carols around the piano. Doesn't think about Maggie's present that lies under her bed, or her mama's cookies that she's dying to eat.

"He's courting you, you know."

"Hmm?" she asks, only half listening, too busy helping Judith make a handmade Christmas card for her ladyship.

"Daryl Dixon," Mrs Peletier chuckles, "have you really not seen it, dear?"

She looks up in surprise.

"Me?" she squeaks.

"Yes, you," the housekeeper smiles softly, "is that really such a shocking concept?"

Yes. No. She doesn't have a clue. All she knows is her daddy's farm and the inside of a nursery. She's hasn't seen what he's seen, lived what he's lived. She doesn't know what a man like him would see; let alone _want_, in girl like her.

She doesn't know what she has to really offer.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Judith's first word is _Beth_, uttered during dinner the third week into the New Year. She's sitting at the servants' dining table by herself, spoon-feeding the baby a small bowl of mushy apples, singing softly. The baby is agitated, as if she knows that soon she will be presented to her parents and the Walsh's, to put on her own version of a show.

"_Bef_," the baby babbles, smiling her gummy smile, "Bef, Bef, Bef!"

"Oh, my sweet girl," Beth coos, "my sweet, clever girl."

She's so overwhelmed with affection and pride that she doesn't think of the reactions of the baby's parents and their guests. Doesn't consider his lordship's confusion and her ladyship's displeasure. Doesn't imagine Lady Andrea's clipped, matter-of-fact tone, _you mustn't take it personally, Lori, they simply form attachments based on proximity. Give Judith a year or two and the nurse will hardly matter._

She doesn't need to hear her Ladyships light, carefree, _oh, I know_.

Beth didn't cry when her brother was missing in action, presumed dead. She didn't cry when her sister ran away to see the world. She didn't cry when she had to leave the farm to save it.

So she sure as hell won't cry now.

Beth bathes the child, gives her a bottle, sings her to sleep. She doesn't wake up during the night anymore, so Beth's evenings are to herself, until she can find her own slumber. It's not easy, not tonight, not when her heart is breaking bit by bit and all she wants is for her mother to hold her.

She squeezes her eyes shut. She will not cry.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Sometimes she's filled with _wonder_.

This is her life, and yes, many wouldn't consider it the most glamorous. But it's a long way from the farm she had grown up on, the life she thought would be hers until her dying day.

It is spring, and she turns nineteen three weeks before Judith turns one. On the day of the child's birthday, they spend it outdoors, the baby laughing and enjoying the sunshine while Beth adorns her tiny head with daisy chains, singing softly.

"Beth?"

"Afternoon, milord," she greets him sweetly, "Mister Dixon."

"We're going for a ride," he tells her, stopping to embrace his daughter, "if her ladyship asks, could you kindly inform her?"

"Of course," she smiles. He glances at her, and she blushes, brushing away the small flowers that are woven in her own hair.

"You just had a birthday, yes?"

She nods, "I turned nineteen."

"Nineteen," he echoes. He almost looks sad.

"Thank you, Beth," he says softly. Daryl shifts awkwardly besides him, "my daughter is very lucky to have you."

She watches curiously as they both walk towards the stables. The sun slips behind the clouds and she tries to shake off the sudden bout of anxiety, twisting her stomach into knots.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"You alright?"

She sniffs, trying to plaster on a smile, but failing.

"Never been 'dismissed' before," she says softly, "thought I was doing a good job, but I guess not."

"You were doin' the best job," he says gruffly, "aint' your fault they're movin' to the city."

"I would've gone with them," she replies, sounding petulant, "I would have done anything for Judith."

"You're young," he replies, "Rick doesn't think it's right for you to waste your youth-"

"Ain't a waste," Beth says stubbornly, "she's like a daughter to me. I love her."

"Yeah, but she ain't," he snaps, "she ain't your daughter. You should get your own husband and have your own children."

"Where am I gonna find a husband?" Beth all but shouts, standing toe to toe with the older man.

He doesn't says a word, just looks at her like the way the men look at the heroines of her stories. Like they're the sun and moon and their entire purpose for living revolves around _them_. Like a thirsty man coming across an oasis in the desert. Like a wolf looks at it's prey. Like the way she always dreamed a man might look at her one day, filled with affection and want and _love_.

"Oh," she breathes.

He gives her a sharp nod, and walks away.

**.**

**.**

**.**

She fusses over the baby as they load the last of the trunks. Her own suitcase sits over to the side; her brother will be picking her up later and she'll be heading back to the farm. In ways, she is looking forward to it. Misses her mama, misses her daddy, misses her favourite horse and the view of the orchard from her window. Misses lazy days and singing in the hayloft. Misses all the small simplicities of farm life and the joy they can bring.

Knows she'll miss Judith more, but she's cried her tears, stomped her feet. Likes to think her ladyship will make good on her promise to contact her they return, let her see the little girl again.

(Mrs Peletier promises, anyway.)

"Miss Greene."

"Mister Dixon."

And here they are, once more.

He's got an army rucksack hanging over his shoulder, as well as his ever-present crossbow.

"You're not staying?" she asks, surprised.

"Nah," he shakes his head, "brought myself some land, couple hours north. Good for huntin'."

"My daddy's farm is a couple of hours north," she says shyly.

He smirks. "Guess we'll be neighbours then."

"Guess so," she answers brightly.

"Guess I'll also have to make a trip out to see your daddy," he says softly, "got somethin' I want to ask him, after all."

"Sounds mighty important, Mister Dixon," she teases, "might I ask what it pertains to?"

"You know," he murmurs, smirking.

Yeah, she does.

His hand finds hers, fingers intertwining, his grip not the least bit hesitant. And she can't stop smiling, thinking of all the ways her Mama will love him and her father will respect him. And how maybe Shawn might finally have someone to talk to about what happened _over there_. She imagines birthdays and Christmases and summer picnics and _him_.

Hands clasped, they wait quietly to go _home_.


End file.
